Lord of the Isles

“Of course you do. You always have a choice. Wasn’t your wife a MacDonald?”

Iain nudged her foot beneath the table, and she nudged him back. She wasn’t about to keep quiet. It was too impor LORD OF THE ISLES

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tant. She had to find a way to make Rory see reason—to stop the senseless loss of life.

“Aye.” Rory’s expression turned fierce. Gone was the teas

ing man of earlier, replaced by someone she wouldn’t want to meet in a dark al ey, or anywhere else for that matter.

“Are the men you fight with not related to her, can’t—?”

“’Tis her father.”

“You both loved the same woman. Surely there’s a way to settle your differences without bloodshed.”

“’Tis none of yer concern.” His tone was dismissive.

“You’re right, it’s not,” she said, pushing back from the table. “Please, give Cook my compliments. Good night.”

Rory looked ready to say something, but instead he stood and offered her his arm. “I’l see you to yer room, Aileanna.”

“I can manage.” She brushed past him, her attention drawn to a flurry of activity at the far end of the hal . Sev eral men surrounded a big, fair-haired man, pounding his back. Ali caught a glimpse of his face when the crowd parted and noted his coloring—the man was purple.

“Stop that,” she cal ed out. Lifting her skirts, she rushed toward them. When she reached the man, she wrapped her arms around him. Making a fist, Ali placed her other hand over it and gave a quick upward thrust to his abdomen, repeating the motion five times. On the last thrust, a smal bone shot out of his mouth and landed in the goblet of the man across from him.

“Thank ye, thank ye, my lady,” he gasped. “I couldna’

breathe.”

Ali patted his arm. “That’s what happens when you’re about to choke to death. Next time you might not want to swal ow the bone along with the meat.”

“Aye,” he said sheepishly, to the amusement of his friends.

“It seems I’l be forever in yer debt where my men are concerned, Lady Aileanna.” Rory took her arm, grabbed a torch from the wal , and led her from the hal . 64

Debbie Mazzuca

“Here, give me that.” She reached for the torch. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your battle plans.”

Rory sighed, the grim lines of his face softening in the dim light. “Aileanna—” He stopped. A commotion at the castle’s entrance drew his attention. The two men who en

tered were covered in grime and armed to the teeth. Rory indicated they were to wait, then stepped back into the hal and cal ed for Connor. When the lad appeared he said,

“Take Lady Aileanna to her room.”

Just like that she was dismissed, and more annoyed than she knew was reasonable. After al , hadn’t she been the one to tel him she didn’t want him to see her to her room?

Ah, but when you looked at that towering mountain of a man, and his beautiful green eyes, all you could think of was how his mouth would feel kissing you good-night, the little voice in her head said. Ali didn’t bother issuing an objection. The stupid little voice was right.

“Thank you, Connor,” Ali said when they came to her room. The hal was damp and cold, and she was unable to contain a shiver.

“I can see to yer fire, my lady,” he offered with a shy smile.

“I’d appreciate that. I’m not very good at it.” She wasn’t. On her second day at Dunvegan—if not for Fergus and Mrs. Macpherson coming to her rescue—she would’ve died from smoke inhalation after her first attempt. Ali opened the door to her chambers to find her young maid scouring the floor, a bucket of soapy water at her side. “Mari, what are you doing working at this hour?

Have you had anything to eat?”

“Nay, but I wil , my lady. I didna’ realize the time, is al ,”

the girl said, averting her eyes from Connor, who appeared to be doing the same.

“Connor, have you met Mari?”

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His cheeks turned bright red. A lock of reddish brown hair fel across his forehead. “Aye . . . nay.”

“Mari, have you met Connor?”

The girl shook her head. Her face flushed the same color as her hair.

Ali held back a laugh. “Connor, Mari. Mari, Connor.”